The Curious Case of the Man Downstairs
by UnderneathTheBunker
Summary: In Which Mrs Hudson rents out the basement. Is the new tenant just antisocial or is There something more sinister afoot?
1. Chapter 1

**The Curious Case of the Man Downstairs.**

_Warning: This starts out light-hearted but veers darker toward the end. Tell me if you think the rating should go up. _

Disclaimer. I own nothing.

**Chapter one: **

_In which Mrs Hudson takes a new lodger. _

_xxxxxxxxxxxxxx_

_Basement flat to let. 221b Baker street. Low rent._

To tell it truthfully, Mrs Hudson had forgotten all about the notice in the paper. She'd thought she might as well give it a try. Its not as though she couldn't use the extra money, what with the discount rate the boys were paying. Not that she minded of course.

It was no surprise that no one wanted the basement of a damp, dark Victorian house, the place was a recipe for black mould and clinical depression, not to mention the cold. Still, she thought, given some notice she could get some heating going and re-paper the walls, it wouldn't be so bad for a short term, summer let.

But then the boys had moved in and taken on cases and, she assumed, only a deranged madman wold want to live in the same vicinity as Sherlock Holmes. What that said about John she wasn't sure. But she had forgotten, until one cold November day she got a knock on the door.

A quiet, dishevelled little man. Not much presence, she could tell he wasn't used to talking to people, he spoke with a debilitating stammer. He sat on the edge of her sofa nursing a cup of tea, looking nervously about the room as though someone would leap out form behind a pot plant and attack him.

"So Mr..."

"Higgins." He replied. " R..Reg."

"Reg! well love as I've told you it's not set up for living in, to be honest I wasn't expecting anyone to be interested..."

"Oh , no n..No, Mrs H...Hudson that's fine, you see it's not the flat as s... Such, it's the n...Neighbourhood. It's close to work and...W...w...Well if the r...r...rent is cheap..."

"What do you do Reg?"

He shifted slightly. "Oh I... W..." He paused, breathed deeply for a moment till his stutter subsided. " Work the n...Night shift at a big h...Hotel near here. This area, well everyw..Where is so expensive and I hate to c...Commute."

"So you won't be here much?" She asked.

"Oh, n...No , I work Tw...Twelve hour shifts most nights , come home to s...Sleep a f...f..few hours during the day and head off again. " He explained.

"Well... "She said with a polite smile, despite the fact she wasn't entirely convinced. "You seem a pleasant sort and it would be nice to get someone in there, run the boiler, heater and whatnot. Shall we take a look?"

The man smiled at her. "Y...Yes please Mrs Hudson." He stammered. "Th...Thank you!"

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"It's not acceptable! " Proclaimed Sherlock as he collapsed onto the sofa. "She has no right to upset the balance."

"The balance of_ what?_" Asked John, as he turned the page of the Daily Mail. "No... On second thoughts don't tell me." He took a sip of tea. "Oh would you look at that! Illegal Immigrants running a brothel in Brixton."

"The balance of the_ house_ John! Of 221b Baker's Street! She's introduced a foreign element into the ecosystem. This could prove disastrous!"

"What? The new tenant?" Retorted John. "He's been here a full week Sherlock and you didn't even realise..."

"I had _cases_ John! I was preoccupied!" He scolded. "I had no time to waste on noticing such things."

"Mmm? Thing like the strange man living downstairs who you did in fact meet, going out or coming in, on _three_ separate occasions?"

"Three? Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically. You see? He's insinuating himself into the fabric of my existence without permission."

"He's never_ here _Sherlock, he's out all night and half the day and if he isn't he's sleeping, he's the perfect neighbour."

Sherlock ignored him. "I don't like it." He summed up.

"Of course you don't. You hate change , that's because you have some kind of high functioning autis..."

"I mean!" Sherlock interrupted, "He could be any kind of mad man! What do we know about Mrs Hudson's process of judging character!"

"She rented to us."

"Exactly!" The Detective huffed. The sound of the front door closing distracted him he went to the window and looked down at the darkening street outside.

"There he goes... Off to do God knows what to God knows who." He murmured, narrowing his eyes.

"He's a night porter at the Victoria Lodge." John supplied.

"You've spoken to him?" Sherlock's head spun around.

"Yes Sherlock I have spoken to him, he's been here a week."

"Tell me everything." He demanded.

John Sighed. He was afraid something like this would happen , The good weather of late had seemingly dried up the crime rate in the greater London area. A slow week for Lestrade and co. meant Sherlock's oversized brain had found a way to entertain itself.

"Reginald Higgins, Early 30s, low income, stutter, Reg for short." John Summarised.

"Is that it?"

" That's what I have gleaned from brief conversations in the front hall yes. "

" Reginald Higgins." Sherlock said the name like it had power in of itself. " I don't trust him. He's hiding something John, and I intend to find out what."

"You didn't know he _existed_ until this morning!"

"Still..." Sherlock got up and skulked to his room. John smiled to himself behind the paper. _At least he's found something to amuse himself_ he thought ... Poor_ Reginald Higgins._

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Three days later and no cases. John was at the clinic all day, it wasn't so bad for him. Sherlock, on the other hand... Had nothing but time. John supposed that if anyone thought long and hard about their neighbours habits they could get a little paranoid.

Even so. A movement sensitive alarm by the door seemed like overkill.

"Jesus!" John screamed at the sudden noise as he walked in after returning from work.

"Oh, John it's you!" Sherlock said with relief as his head rounding the corner.

"Turn it off!" Shouted John over the blaring alarm. "You'll disturb Mrs Hudson!"

Sherlock produced a remote and pressed something. Silence.

"What the hell did you install that for!"

Sherlock didn't answer him, just grabbed his sleeve and pulled him inside. John saw that Mrs Hudson was in the their kitchen, doing dishes.

" What the hell was that cacophony about?" He cried.

"Quiet!" Sherlock whispered "He's downstairs now, "Sleeping" ."

"Well not after the alarm he's not!" John began.

"Shut up John, listen to me!" Sherlock said, his eyes feverish. " Your idiotic good faith in people had once again been proven false..."

"Hello Dear!" Mrs Hudson greeted him.

"Hello Mrs Hudson." John replied. "Please tell this idiot he's being an idiot."

"On the contrary John! Mrs Hudson will back me up on this." Sherlock smirked. "Tell him!" He said to her. "Tell him about the so called Mr Higgins's suspicious behaviour!"

"Well... " Mrs Hudson began doubtfully. "I'm not sure it's suspicious as such, and I'm not one to invade people's privacy. But I tend to get up with the birds, I suppose my internal clock is just set like that... My age and all..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes but let her continue at her own pace.

" Anyway... The walls are old and thin, as you know. I noticed that when Reg comes home from work, usually about six or seven in the morning... Well, He gets in and I hear him scrape his shoes and the boiler comes on for the shower and I presume he goes to bed then... Thing is, You know there's no telly down there..."

She looked hesitant for a moment.

"I don't know if its anything to remark upon really, but I hear him_ talking_ to himself. Maybe he talks in his sleep? I can never really hear what he's saying, sometimes a word or sentence but... l... but it's definite conversation. One sided but still, sometimes it seems to get quiet loud and heated!"

"Paranoid Schizophrenic..." Sherlock decided "Or multiple personalities. Mark my words John he'll be up here soon enough and you'll be thankful for that alarm... Mrs Hudson, you should have one fitted too, and stay with us until your house is maniac proofed. "

"For Christ's sake Sherlock!" John sighed. "Mrs Hudson, don't let him drag you into his delusions. He's just bored without a case. The man's _lonely _Sherlock. He's entitled to have imaginary conversations if he wants. Maybe its because his neighbours are so bloody unfriendly!." He snapped at them, leaving them to their tea and gossip.

As he retired to his room, John could hear Mrs Hudson and Sherlock continue their chat.

"You know" she said "The funny thing is, when he talks to himself, he doesn't seem to stutter at all..."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: **

_In which Sherlock misses something._

_xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx_

John would wonder later, after the fuss had died down and he'd had time to reflect. If he would have noticed the little signs if Sherlock hadn't been so insistent that there was something wrong with their downstairs neighbour.

The man was shy, that was certain, John had attempted to invite him out for a drink the following night and he'd refused point blank. Muttering something about not having a night off.

So, his attempt at neighbourly friendliness thwarted, he had let Reg be. One weirdo in his life was probably enough anyway. The thing was, he had begun to notice things too. For a start Mrs Hudson hadn't been mistaken, The man _did _talk to himself. John heard it when he left for work some mornings. Passing the door, more often than not he'd hear the soft cadence of Reg's voice, uninterrupted by his usual stammering.

Sometimes his voice would be raised and sound angry or impatient, other times it would be soft and he'd hear a chuckle through the door. Not that he listened with his ear to the keyhole or anything.

So maybe the man was mentally ill. That was fine, he wasn't hurting anyone, was he? Of course this was all discounting the theory that he was simply making a lot of phone calls.

John kept his personal misgivings about Reg to himself. He wasn't one to judge on first impressions, even now, after living with 'Mr first impressions' himself.

_Sherlock isn't wrong about these things. _A little voice in his head repeated._ Have you ever known him to be wrong?_

Well yes, occasionally, about some things. Normal human relationships and such... He had to wonder if Sherlock knew how being neighbors _worked. He probably grew up on a country estate somewhere, where the nearest neighbor was ten miles away._

_xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx _

One evening he'd had to pop out to the clinic to cover for someone who called in sick. While waiting for the tube, he spied Reg Higgins on the other platform, oblivious to his presence. He nearly waved at the man and got on his train. But something stopped him. Reg should have been heading to work... and the Victoria Lodge was in the opposite direction. Then he remembered that it was none of his bloody business where the man went or what he did. But he still changed platforms, and got on Reg's train. He didn't know why he did it, but he did.

Keeping his head down, at the back of the carriage, he hid behind his paper. Noting Reg's body language as he scanned the crowd nervously._ He's afraid of being followed. _John thought. _Oh God! I'm turning into Sherlock! _The realisation hit him hard. An inexplicably heavy guilt settled on him. How dare he follow this man and question his motives? It was a free country for God's sake!

The little man got off near Edmonton, John stayed on the tube until the next stop then got a train back to his destination. For the rest of the night, he couldn't quite shake the memory of Reg, hunched up in among the crowd, trying to make himself as small and invisible as he could.

on a coffee break he took out his laptop and got the number for the Victoria Lodge.

_"Hello? Victoria Lodge, how may I help you?"_ Said a female voice.

"Hi... Um..." Now he was suddenly at a loss of words. "I'm a friend of Reg Higgins, I believe he's one of your Night Porters? I have a message for him and..."

_"One moment sir... "_ Said the voice, _Ode to Joy_ cut her off as she put him on hold. "What the hell an I doing?" He whispered to himself. What the _was_ hell was he doing? He didn't even know.

_"Hello sir?" _The voice was back.

"Hi."

_"I'm afraid we don't employ anyone by that name." _

John suddenly felt a chill. "Oh. Ok then, thanks." He hung up. His hand shaking slightly.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Sherlock, getting more bored and frustrated by the day at his lack of cases, had taken to observing the man with a pair of binoculars as he made his way down the street early in the evening and then again in the morning when he returned.

" His work hours must be very variable." He exclaimed one evening. "He leaves at around the same time every night, but he can be back any time between 3:46 am and 11:45 am."

"Hotels." John replied, refusing to look at his friend." They don't work like your average business."

"Clearly not. He beat someone up last night."

"What?" John sat up, suddenly attentive. 'What did you say?"

"He's walking with a distinctive gait, indicating two cracked ribs on the left side."

"Are you sure?'

"Of course, he's also favouring his right arm despite being left handed, because his left knuckles are broken, implying that he was the one throwing the hardest or most punches. He took a beating, yes but he delivered a worse one. Now correct me if I'm wrong John." He said most sarcastically. "But wouldn't that be the sort of thing one could call in sick for if one did, in fact, work at a hotel?"

John felt a sudden chill. He didn't like this. If it was anyone else he'd tell them to stop imagining things but he knew better.

"Well? What is your deduction then?"

"I'll have to go in for a better look before deciding. " Sherlock told him, peering through the binoculars at the disappearing man.

"What are you suggesting? Breaking into his flat?" Asked John hesitantly.

"Don't be ridiculous!" Sherlock snapped. "Mrs Hudson has the key."

John was getting irritated now, and a little worried.

"No Sherlock, just... No." He ignored the death glare. "You are not breaking into the man's flat. It doesn't matter if he's strange, insane, lying about his occupation and prone to violence. It's none of your business."

" That's probably the kind of thing the neighbours say before they end up in a serial killer's sex dungeon." Sherlock stated flatly.

"Well Sherlock I think between the two of us we could take him in a fight, should it come to that."

"Something about the picture doesn't fit John."

John said nothing, he knew it was true, and he was somewhat perturbed that Sherlock hadn't honed in directly on the flaw in the picture right away.

"I know." He said softly. "But Sherlock, he has rights too. And privacy without harassment is one of them, so unless he starts becoming aggressive I don't want to hear about it all right? You just keep your deductions to yourself."

Sherlock remained on the windowsill, staring silently into the night.

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Sherlock waited at the top of the stairs until he heard the low mumbling that indicated Reg Higgins was near his door, about to go to work. John was still at the clinic, good. He didn't need his politically correct inanity getting in the way of his investigation. When he saw the man exit into the hallway he descended the stairs like a cheetah on its prey. Reg jumped out of his skin.

"Oh Hay!" Sherlock put on his best , metro-sexual, entitled-but-friendly rich kid accent as he approached a clearly terrified Reg with a smile and an outstretched hand. "How _are_ you? I don't think we've been introduced."

Reg said nothing, unable to speak after the fright he'd got.

"I'm Sherlock! I think you've met my partner John?" The little man nodded hesitantly as Sherlock monologued him into the carpet.

"John's just _always_ going on about having you over. You simply _must_ come up for lunch sometime!" He camped up his mannerisms to epic levels. "John would just _love_ to cook for you! He's the domestic one! _hahaha_!" Sherlock stood beside the man, getting in his face and, for a brief moment, a good view of the basement through half open door.

There was a fold out couch, currently functioning as a bed with messy sheets, and no other furniture that he could see, excluding the microwave and mini fridge on the kitchenette counter top. Food wrappers and other debris littered the floor. Reg realised what he was doing, staring like a deer into the headlights of an oncoming monster truck. He quickly shut the door.

"Tomorrow then? One-ish? _Excellent!_ I'll tell John to expect you! _Toodles!"_ He guided Reg out the door with a hand on his back. Smirking as the man cringed.

As the front door closed Sherlock's smile vanished. Something... _Something_ not right about that room, something missing? No... Something _added. _He put a hand to the doorknob for a moment. He could have easily stepped into Mrs Hudson's and taken the spare key from her cupboard. No, he had to play this one more carefully. The man was weary now. He'd keep playing the overly friendly gay neighbour. Maybe he'd even get to interrogate Reg over lunch, although he doubted Reg would accept his invitation. Shame, he'd have enjoyed teasing John.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Reg didn't return from work that morning. Sherlock knew this because he'd been up all night, thinking about that room. His memory of it clear, every inch of stained carpet and mouldy wallpaper. Yet he'd missed something. The bed , mustard yellow duvet cover, messy, no sheet. Floor in a state of disarray, takeaway packets, an old receipt, a pot noodle tub, a mouldering coffee mug, a spoon, a crayon and a pair of dirty socks.

He got up and went to the kitchen, John was already up and brewing coffee.

Sherlock sat down at the table and poured himself a large mug. "He didn't come home last night." He announced.

John rolled his eyes. "This again. Really Sherlock? He's not home yet, why do you care?"

Sherlock glared at him over the rim of his cup. " I don't know." He flinched slightly at the admission. "Yet." He added quickly.

John sat down and began to work on his blog, Sherlock sat at the table staring into space and drinking cup after cup of coffee. Every now and the he'd twitch violently or mutter to himself, in a way that told John he was deep in thought. The day slipped by John finished writing, went out to the shop, came back and began to make dinner. Sherlock moved to the windowsill, watching the street though his binoculars. As evening approached there was still no sign of Reg.

John observed his friend silently for a moment. Sherlock was agitated, had been all week, but now... Something dawned on John.

He was getting nervous himself. He had tried to explain away his friend's behaviour as a kind of game, invented to stave off boredom, but now... Pale, stressed, _worried. _Sherlock looked absolutely sincere.

"You're _genuinely_ afraid of this guy aren't you?" John asked him. The truth of it hitting him like a tom of bricks.

Sherlock fixed him with a hawk like stare. "I'm not _afraid_ of him!' He spat the words. "_Fear_ doesn't come into it. But this... _Situation_ unnerves me, yes..."

John sat down opposite him. "Ok." He said.

"Ok what?"

John looked him in the eye. "Look Sherlock, I _know_ you, you aren't wrong about this kind of thing. So _tell_ me... What exactly has this man done to make you think he's Jeffery Dammer? Reveal your process. I want to know."

"That's just it!" Sherlock muttered, his eyes feverish with frustration. "He's quiet and unassuming but clearly violent. Everything about him screams 'victim' but he is clearly a criminal. It's nothing specific, but _everything_... You understand the_ whole_ picture is missing something... Or maybe... " He squeezed his eyes shut. "Something is there that _shouldn't _be, and for the life of me I can't see what that is!"

He got up and began pacing the room, ranting to himself. Gesturing wildly. John was torn between letting him express his aggravation and insisting he calm down.

"GOD John it's driving me insane! He's hiding something. The man is terrified, don't you _see_? Absolutely _terrified_ of someone discovering his secret and I know it's right in front of me and I just can't grasp it! " He clutched his head.

"Mess! He has no time for housework. Very few clothes, No furniture, he moved in a rush... He's hiding from someone. Pot noodles and a chinese takeaway box from down the street, fast food, rushing to get home. The flat means nothing to him but he rushes to get back, its a bolt hole, he's in danger out... there." He slowed down. Something changed in his expression.

"Number 35: Sunshine Yellow." He whispered, staring into space.

"What?" John was utterly nonplussed. "What does _that _mean?"

"The Crayon." Sherlock's lips moved almost silently as though he'd received a divine epiphany. "Of course." He whispered. Sitting down slowly.

"Of course." John parroted sarcastically. "Care to share?"

"John!' Sherlock snapped out of his reverie, shaking his head "What time is it?"

"Just after six, why?"

Sherlock was on his feet and out the door without a backward glance, John could hear him thundering down the stairs three at a time.

"Sherlock?" He called, as he followed the man downstairs. "What the hell..."

Sherock gave the basement door a solid kick at the lock, and the worm eaten wood gave way with a crunch. He disappeared into the room and John followed him.

He blinked, it was totally dark, it smelled musty. Sherlock switched on the light by the door and a naked bulb starkly lit the room. John gasped at the state of the place, it was a total shambles.

"Sherlock what..."

The detective navigated the mess and slowly opened the door to the small bathroom. A light was on inside, Sherlock crouched, obscuring John's view of the room.

"Well hello!" He said, His friend's voice was low and softer than John had ever heard it. "What have we here?"

John took a step forward, looking over Sherlock's head with a sense of dread.

"Hello Chicken." Sherlock continued. "Your daddy didn't come home did he?"

It was a small child. Very small, not older than three. Barefoot, wearing a dirty nightie with little hearts on it. She stood against the back wall of the bathroom, looking at them them with big distrustful eyes. John swallowed convulsively. Not liking the implications one bit.

"Now John." Sherlock said in the same soft, singsong voice, as he rose and turned to him with a triumphant smirk. "Do you admit I might have been onto something?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: **

_In which Sherlock doesn't make assumptions. _

"Are you sure it's a good idea to leave him alone with her dear? I'm quite sure he has no idea how to act around children."

Mrs Hudson looked nervously around the edge of the bathroom door, into her living room, where John had deposited Sherlock and a very small girl.

"No different from adults then." John said grimily as he ran the bath. "He's going to call Lestrade and social services while we give the kid a bath." The child was dirty, yes, but of course Mrs Hudson knew the real reason for the bath. The implications of abuse were all there, John wanted to be sure. She was there as a witness as much as a helping hand. Why, oh why hadn't she noticed there was something wrong with that man?

"I just dread to think what might have happened if Sherlock hadn't noticed Reg was missing." Mrs Hudson exclaimed with a shudder." That poor little mite down there all alone, starving to death." She sniffed slightly. John put a hand on her shoulder.

"Not your fault Mrs Hudson." He murmured. "I didn't follow my instincts either."

"Wouldn't the police want to examine the child?" She asked "You know" She lowered her voice. _"Evidence."_

" I've signed affidavits before that have been used in court for situations like this. I know what to do... Unfortunately." John signed. He knew it would be too much to hope that the child was simply neglected. _Grossly _neglected.

"Now Mrs Hudson if you could distract her with some toys or something?" His voice on the edge of cracking, he pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I have a rubber duck somewhere..." She muttered, rooting around in the cupboard, and some Tupperware tubs...Mine always liked playing with those. " Her voice was shaky. She didn't like this any more than he did.

The kid hadn't cried when he'd picked her up and carried her out of the house, she hadn't made a sound. Just put her little arms around his neck and rested her head on his shoulder.

He'd left her beside Sherlock on Mrs Hudson's sofa, eating a sandwich. It seemed a fairly safe and innocuous room, there wasn't too much damage either of them could do in there.

By the time John reappeared the child had moved to Sherlock's lap, where she regarded him silently with big, serious eyes. Sherlock stared back, appraisingly. _Two strange feral children that have never seen a human before._ He thought to himself. _Both raised by wolves. _

"Its sitting on me." Sherlock told him.

"I can see that." John smiled. "_She_ must like you."

"Why would she?" Sherlock asked, his eyes never waiveing from the child's face.

"Well, you _were_ the one who found her." He guessed.

"You made her the sandwich." Sherlock replied. "Why didn't she sit on_ you_?"

John sat beside them on the sofa. The child looked at him with equal curiosity.

"She doesn't seem afraid at all." Sherlock observed. " I don't know if that's good or bad."

" Could be either." John told him. " It could indicate an inherent trust in adults, indicating that she hasnt been hurt by them or... Well, the lack of a bond to her father, a lack of understanding."

"Her cranial structure would place her between 24 and 36 months. They're supposed to speak at this age aren't they?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes." John pursed his lips. "They are." Just then Mrs Hudson bustled into the room.

" Now who's a good chick then?" She cooed at the little girl. " Bath time sweetheart?" Lifting her into her arms in a practised fashion. Once again the kid didn't complain or make a sound. _Not normal_ John thought.

" Did you call Lestrade?" He asked. Staring after Mrs Hudson.

"Yes, he'll send a social worker and an officer round and they'll take her into care. Then, when they find her father they'll take him into custody and charge him with gross neglect and... Well, whatever else you deduce in that bathroom."

"How do you know he's her father?" John had been bothered by the assumption.

"She doesn't match any missing person's description." Sherlock supplied. "And they both have a missing incisor on the left. Or at least she will one day, when she loses her milk teeth, the symmetry of her jaw is off. "

John blinked. "OK." He said and walked toward the bathroom, steeling himself against whatever awfulness he was about to discover.

"She was hungry, but not starving. " Sherlock said suddenly. John paused in the doorway. "He was feeding her."

"And?"

"He rushed to get home every morning."

"He_ also_ locked a three year old child _alone_ in a dark room for _fifteen_ hours a day!" John snapped "What's your point Sherlock?"

"She's not afraid of us either." Sherlock continued. " You said yourself. That could be a sign of trust... We mustn't assume anything John, not until we have the facts."

John took a deep breath. "Well we'll see just what kind of man he was now won't we?" He said tersely.

Sherlock sat on the sofa of and sated at the blank television screen, his face betraying nothing.

"I spent a lot of time on my own as a child." He said quietly.

" Look how well that turned out." John sighed sadly. Stepping into the

bathroom.

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When John reappeared about twenty minutes later, drying his hands, Sherlock looked up sharply, he was tewitchy, jogging his leg restlessly.

"Is castration in order or will a simple defenestration do?" He asked in his typical monotone.

"What?" John looked up confused.

"For Higgins... When or if he returns." He looked disturbingly serious.

"Neither." John said, with relief. "She seems unharmed, there were no signs of any physical or sexual abuse, she's too thin though and may have the beginnings of rickets. A few days in the sun wouldn't hurt. Mr's Hudson's putting her to bed, poor little thing's exhausted."

"Good." Sherlock said, getting up quickly. Looking out the window then checking his phone.

"Are the police on the way?"

"No I didn't call them." Sherlock answered.

"What?" John was flabbergasted. "You are _joking!_"

"No. Why would I joke?"

"You didn't bother to call the police? You lied to me! Why?"

" I was curious." Sherlock replied, as though the entire situation were an interesting petri dish.

John's temper was rising to boiling point. He threw his arms up. "Curious? Jesus Sherlock what could you possibly... You _are_ aware that a _crime_ has taken place right?"

Sherlock looked ready to give a snarky reply, but instead he held up his hand.

"Listen John!"

The sound of a key in the front door had them both holding their breath. Hurried footsteps in the hall, laboured breathing, a terrified cry.

"SAL!"

They heard the sound of his feet on the stairs. He hammered on the door to the upstairs flat in a panic. "Sal!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stepped out into the hall.

"Oh Quiet you fool!" He shouted up at Reg Higgins, who stood, white faced, at the top of the stairs. "She's down here!


End file.
